Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance Read online

  As the bride straddled me, slowly driving my cock between the tight lips of her cunt, I reached for the bridesmaid. I hefted her off the ground and positioned her ass in front of my face. Her round ass was so smooth and fleshy that my fingers dimpled into her skin as I pried her cheeks apart.

  I grunted, my legs going rigid as the bride slid down on my cock. She really went at it, shrugging off her loose corset as she rode me vigorously. I didn't know what brand this condom was, but I knew I needed to get me a variety pack of this shit – I could barely feel it on me.

  I craned my neck to the side, watching as the bride started a sloppy tongue-fencing session with the bridesmaid between bounces. The bridesmaid's juices leaked out from the small crotch of her panties, trickling down the inside of her thigh. I leaned forward, lapping up the trickle before shoving my face right into her warm, breathing cunt. With stripper cunt juice streaked all over my mouth, cheeks, and beard, the corners of my mouth twitched.

  I didn't give 2 shits about what other people thought – I was still the fucking man.

  Chapter Two: Brooklyn

  2016

  “Come in.”

  I opened the door and let myself into the office. It was like walking through a portal that led to the lap of unnecessary luxury. Bright, natural light streamed in through the floor-length windows, which displayed a panoramic view of Wall Street from the 61st floor. Coffee-colored chesterfield furniture adorned the room. The walls were decorated with framed plaques and mounted trophies of giant fish, cattle, and bear heads.

  A pot-bellied man with a greasy, ruddy complexion and a Monopoly Man mustache sat behind the desk in the center of the room. He reclined in his chair, beckoning me towards him. The strained buttons over his flabby gut wheezed with him.

  “Mr. Hernandez.”

  “Well, well, to what do I owe the pleasure, toots?” He leaned forward, wiggling the white tufts on his forehead as I took the seat in front of him. “Nice skirt – I certainly hope you're not distracting any of my men with those legs of yours.”

  “How charming,” I replied dully, sliding the call sheet across the table. “But I'm not here for a fashion consultation.”

  “And what exactly am I looking at here?” Mr. Hernandez picked up the paper lazily, narrowing his beady gray eyes.

  “Martha Goldberg.” I pointed out the highlighted name towards the end of the list. “This is Bosworth's sheet. He's been selling her shares of J&M Pharmaceuticals and Farrow Research. These companies are bad news –”

  “Alright, Cunningham, I'm listening, but so far, I'm not hearing anything that concerns me, so if we can wrap this up, my wife's made a pot roast –”

  “But Bosworth is unloading worthless shares – one after another, it's not just J&M and Farrow –”

  “Enough, Cunningham,” Mr. Hernandez barked. He slid the paper back across his desk and started picking at the lint under his yellowish fingernails. “Who is this woman, anyway?”

  “She was my Literature teacher back in high school,” I explained, breathing deeply. As much of a sexist jerk as he was, the man was still my boss. “From what I've heard, she lives alone, and she's got Alzheimer's. Look, I get it, we're in the business of making money, but this is taking it too far –”

  “It's always going to be someone's mother, neighbor, friend, hairdresser's sister, you get it.” Mr. Hernandez propped his elbows against his armrest and steepled his fingers. “At Slater Oakridge, we learn to detach ourselves from the situation and do whatever it takes to keep the company's best interests at heart. Now, see, this is why I've always said women shouldn't be dabbling in the market – other than those butch lesbians, I suppose –”

  “'You take care of Slater Oarkridge, and Slater Oakridge takes care of you,'” I recited the company motto pointedly under my breath, shooting daggers at him.

  “Exactly. That's the spirit.” His crusty white lips twisted in a thin smile. “Curious, isn't it? This is the first time you've ever brought anything of the sort to my attention, and coming from the firm's top-paid female employee, too.”

  “I don't see how that –”

  “Bosworth's got that Slater Oakridge drive – the man is stepping up his game. Instead of letting that jealousy fester, take a page from his book and keep at it, sweetheart. You'll get there someday.”

  “But what about –”

  “Now, why don't you run along and go buy yourself something shiny to get your mind off all of this. We don't want stress wrinkles to ruin that pretty face of yours, do we?” Mr. Hernandez rose to his feet, pushing a cigar into the side of his mouth. “I'll see you tomorrow, Cunningham.”

  I would have liked to take that cigar and ram it up his nose, but as a civilized member of society and a slave to the machine, I held my tongue.

  “Right.”

  With a hanging head, I took the call sheet and left the office. A knot of guilt settled in the pit of my stomach. If you extracted all the bigoted remarks from what Mr. Hernandez said, there was some truth there.

  Despite my 4 years on Wall Street, I liked to think that my conscience hadn't yet reached its full decay. I usually went out of my way to avoid sinking to Bosworth's level, but when I needed to fill a quota, I did what I had to. Though I could keep telling myself that I only sought out those who could afford it, there was no way I could put myself of any kind of pedestal. I had started out as an order entry clerk, and to scale the ranks to get where I was today, I've done some things I would prefer to be left out of my tombstone.

  When I returned to my cubicle, I slipped the copy of Bosworth's call sheet back into my files and swung my purse over my shoulder.

  XXX

  I pulled up in my usual spot by the curb of Ike's Hoagies. I was parked right across a vibrant mural, which seemed to be the only source of life amidst the rows of shabby buildings and flickering lampposts. The gorgeous life-sized painting depicted a young girl with flowing black locks and a white nightgown, soaring over the twinkling skies of New York City. Ever since the 17-year-old artist was shot dead in a drug deal gone wrong 7 years ago, people in the neighborhood have been working together to preserve the artwork.

  I reached for my duffel bag and purse in the passenger seat and got out of my car. Mr. and Mrs. Rashid, the adorable couple that owned Ike's Hoagies, waved at me cheerfully from inside the sandwich shop. Beaming, I locked my car and returned the wave. It was my first genuine smile of the day.

  I made a left on 86th Street and decided to take a shortcut through an alley behind a line of Asian markets. But as I got closer to the opening that led to Fulton, I felt a small, but sharp prick, just slightly to the right of my spine. I skidded to a halt, my shoulders hunching upwards instinctively.

  “Don't move, lady. I don't wanna have to hurt you –”

  “What –”

  “Don't look at me! Just hand over the bag, and –”

  “Okay, okay, take it easy, pal.”

  I jerked my head back and stared straight ahead, thinking hard. My skin was crawling from his hot breath beating down on the nape of my neck. He sounded young and inexperienced, his words all strung together. That said, he was holding some kind of blade to my back, so I had to keep reminding myself not to make any sudden movements.

  “I'm just going to take one step forward and put down my purse –”

  “Wait – aw, shit!”

  I leaped aside just in time. The kid tripped over his own laces, tumbling forward. As he pushed out his hands to keep himself from face-planting on the floor, a freshly sharpened pencil rolled across the ground, stopping by the tips of my cream pumps. I picked up the pencil, raising my eyebrows. I was almost impressed. The size of the balls on this kid.

  “Really?”

  The kid looked up at me, his eyes darting back and forth. He sprang off the ground and swatted at my purse, but I saw it coming. I gripped the other end of my purse, clamping the strap under my arm as I pulled away from him.

  “Damn it – let go, kid!”

&n
bsp; “Ay, yo, Ms. C! And Socks? Is that you, bro?”

  My assailant and I paused, turning our heads at the mutually familiar voice. Leonard Thompson, or Thumper, as he liked to be called, moseyed over to us with an oblivious grin on his face. “Socks” let go of my purse, nearly throwing me off balance. He dusted off his red-and-gold LeBron jersey, meeting Thumper halfway.

  “It's been a minute, man. How come I ain't see you around at the court lately?”

  “I've been real busy – got all those extra classes I gotta make up for before they're gonna let me graduate. And I've been kicking it at the studio with Ms. C –” Thumper looked around at me. “What were y'all doing back here, anyway?”

  “Oh, you know, just getting mugged by your lovely friend over here. Socks, is it?” I muttered, returning his pencil. “I think this belongs to you.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.” The kid pocketed the pencil, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

  “Come on, man.” Thumper crossed his arms, his smile waning. “I thought you said you'd cut this shit out – if I can get my shit together, so can you –”

  “Yeah, I know, but this is – this is temporary –”

  “What about school?” Thumper pressed him. “I haven't seen you around in a couple of weeks.”

  “Dropped out,” Socks replied, averting his gaze. “Money's a little tight –”

  “That's fine – you can kick it with us at the studio for now. We'll figure something out.” Thumper slapped a hand on his friend's sagging shoulder. “You're cool with that, right, Ms. C?”

  “I don't think Ms. C –”

  “Of course.” I nodded, motioning towards the other end of the alley. “Why don't you take Socks to Ike's for a sandwich first? You guys can come in a little later – we're just doing a little freestyle session today.”

  “Thanks, Ms. C. Come on.”

  Socks looked back at me with a weak smile before dawdling off behind Thumper. But as I turned to leave myself, I stopped again. I rubbed my bare neck, spinning around urgently until I spotted the tiny diamond winking from the dirt and gravel. My heart sank.

  I retrieved the pendant along with the 2 pieces of its snapped silver chain and crept out of the alley.

  Chapter Three: Brooklyn

  2005

  “Damn it! Where is he?” I glanced back to check the clock on the pink bathroom walls. “It's been over an hour – he hasn't answered any of my calls or texts. I'm starting to get worried –”

  “Relax, Brooks. I'm sure he'll show up soon. His phone could have died. Or maybe he's stranded somewhere and he's trying to get help. You know what a piece of crap that car is.”

  Sighing, I turned back to the mirror, gazing helplessly at Tabitha through our reflection. My best friend adjusted her black collar choker and fluffed out the ruffles of her layered Victorian dress. She would have been a dead ringer for a teenage Wednesday Addams if it weren't for her twin plaits of kinky flaming-red hair.

  “I sure hope so. He wouldn't stand me up on prom night, would he?” Even as I said it out loud, I didn't believe it. “Honestly, I don't care if he's not coming at this point. This whole prom thing isn't really his scene, anyway. I just wish he called to give me a heads up –”

  “Chill out, Brooks. You're psyching yourself out again.” said Tabitha reassuringly. She unscrewed a studded tube and smeared on another coat of black lipstick. “Let's try to make the most of it. I mean, look at me, I'm not here with anyone, and I'm doing just peachy.”

  “You're right.” Forcing a smile, I smoothed out the gauzy chiffon fabric of my seafoam-green gown. I took a step backwards, twisting my body from side to side to make sure no tags were sticking out of the sequined bodice. “Let's get out of here and hit the dance floor before the DJ starts playing the slow jams.”

  “Fine, but if he starts playing Chris Brown, I'm out of there,” said Tabitha, pursing her lips.

  “What have you got against –”

  “Don't even get me started, but for one, his music is god-awfully pedestrian. And I can't quite put my finger on it, but I've always had a bad feeling about the dude.”

  “Okay, hater,” I rolled my eyes, laughing. “Come on.”

  We fanned away the thick puffs of smoke wafting out from under the stalls and pulled open the door.

  A chilly rush of air blew over me from above. Shivering, I stepped away from the overhead vents and swept my eyes across the room. I could hardly hear myself think from the tunes thundering out of the jumping speakers.

  Gold and silver streamers were hung from one ceiling light to another. The retracted bleachers gave way to a massive space on the gym floor, which was filled with dozens of fancy chairs and dressed tables with centerpiece bouquets of black and white balloons. A square was sectioned off in front of the stage for the dance floor, which was teeming with my grinding and chest-popping peers.

  Tabitha and I squeezed past the handsy couples and found ourselves a spot on the dance floor. My shoulders couldn't help but groove to the killer beat, but I kept my eyes peeled. As I danced, my eyes drifted from the students parading down the red carpet stretching out from the entrance to those waiting in line for their photo-ops with the Hollywood backdrop.

  Debbie Mitchell had her boyfriend, Lance Derby, cornered by the punch bowl. Her words were drowned out by the music, but judging by the way she was baring her braces and thrusting her fingers in his chest, it couldn't have been a pleasant conversation. I twirled around smoothly, jiving with Tabitha with my back against hers. Daymond Armstrong, one of the football players, had his tongue down the throat of his date, who wore a short frilly pink dress. As her head swiveled into view, I could tell that the woman had to be at least 5 years older than him.

  “Brooklyn! Brooklyn, there you are!”

  Whitney Fang, my co-captain on the squad, cut through the group of band girls and danced towards us.

  “What's up, Whitney?”

  “Okay, so I've been poking around,” Whitney cupped her hands over her mouth, straining her voice over the music. “I'm not, like, a hundred percent on this, but I'm pretty sure you're winning that crown this year!”

  “Oh, okay. Cool.” I pressed my lips together in a tight smile, peering around her.

  “'Cool'?” Whitney repeated indignantly. Her jaw fell open. “Do you have any idea how many girls in school would kill just to be nominated?”

  I didn't need to look back; I could practically feel Tabitha rolling her eyes behind me.

  “I mean, it's awesome, but sorry, I'm not really feeling it right now. Ace isn't here yet –”

  “What are you talking about? He's right there.” Whitney pointed behind me, furrowing her sperm-shaped eyebrows. “What's he wearing?”

  Tabitha and I flicked our heads back. Whitney was right. I recognized the tall, bulky figure in the ratty orange hoodie instantly. My shoulders slumped in relief. I jostled my way through the irritated band girls. Yelling a quick apology over my shoulder, I ran as fast as my chunky silver heels would carry me.

  “Thank God!” I flung my arms over his neck. I tackled him with my full weight, but his strong stature didn't budge. “What happened to you? I didn't think you were gonna show up tonight.”

  “I told you I was coming.” He lowered his head. I could only see his mouth inside his baggy hood. “Sorry, I'm not more dressed up. I didn't have time to –”

  “Doesn't matter,” I lowered my arms and fastened my hands around his waist. “You're here, and that's what's important. Wanna dance? Oh, or should we hit up the photo booth first –”

  “You mind if we talk outside?”

  “Okay? Sure.”

  I followed him out of the gym. The heavy metal doors swung shut behind us, leaving us in the still of the dark, empty hallway. Ace leaned against the locker closest to him and pulled down his hood.

  “So what did you wanna...”

  My words trailed off when I got a better look at his face. His face was expressionless, but his small brown eyes we
re dry and bloodshot. I gulped, my chest tightening.

  “What's wrong?”

  “Brooklyn, I have to go.”

  “Go? Go where?” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ears, laughing nervously. “I'm not gonna bite your head off for showing up so late, but don't push your luck –”

  “Texas.”

  “You're joking, right? You should stick to football – I don't think comedy's really your thing –”

  “Brooklyn, listen to me. Don't make this harder than it already is.”

  My lips clamped shut at the unnerving crack in his gruff voice.

  “I've been talking to Dad all night, and I've come to realize how important this scholarship really is. I didn't think I could ever afford to go to college – everyone in my family – my grandfather, my dad, my cousins – they all went to work right after high school, and now some school's down to offer me a scholarship. Not just any school, too –”

  “Duh, I know.” The smile on my face was starting to hurt. “I was with you when you opened the letter, remember? So what –”

  “I'm leaving tonight,” said Ace softly. He reached for my hands, rubbing my clammy fingers. “I'm sorry. I would have told you if I'd known, but my dad sprang it on me a couple hours ago. He's sending me over to stay with my Uncle Jeff.”

  “Tonight?” I squeaked, my breath lodging in my throat. “What –”

  “My flight leaves in 2 hours.”

  “2 hours? But that means –”

  “I have to leave right now,” Ace finished my sentence. As I gawked at him, stunned tears quietly streaming down my cheeks, he let go of my hands. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flat black box. “Sorry, I know this is 2 weeks late, but happy birthday.”

  He popped the lid open. I blinked my blurry vision away, sniffing. A small teardrop-shaped diamond with a silver chain sat on the velvet lining. He took the necklace out and handed me the box, walking behind me.